Gackle, North Dakota-1909 Poem by Tovli Simiryan

Furrows of iron paths
disappearing into horizons,
meander impulsively
the way matches suddenly
explode monotony into the color of amber.

The prairie wind penetrates dreams and labor,
abolishing anticipation and despair,
whispering resolve deep into black soil
which clings beneath finger nails like thick oil
or souls mined, then stripped bare.

Two chestnut mules,
their withers the height of most men,
pull durum into shadow, their flaxen mane
sticking to white washed paddocks
between rows of welcoming fence posts
and swinging, unlatched gates.

Near Voltaire, silos rise from earth,
officiating over tawny landscapes,
protecting endowments, granting confidence,
grieving abandoned lives that
beckon winter.

Farmers’ Union influences each lonely voice,
spoken from humility,
following an honest day
weighing heavily
from critique or commentary—
the familiar nod often saved for strangers.